GOOD TO BE ALIVE a Mac–Murdoc tale
by Elszy
Summary: MacGyver is looking forward to a good vacation, but his Nemesis Murdoc has other plans. With a broken leg, there is no fighting off Murdoc. How can MacGyver keep his head above water? Angst - H/C.
1. Chapter 1

**GOOD TO BE ALIVE**

(Minor spoiler warning: this is set after episode 6x20: trail of tears.)

No copyright infringement intended. MacGyver is not mine, I just like to write about him. This is my first Mac-fic. Please review!

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GOOD TO BE ALIVE - chapter 1

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_**Mac**_

I must have done something good to deserve this. Today, after three rainy and windy weeks, it's a beautiful day, a clear blue sky and it's fresh and sunny outside. Not only the weather is in favour of me, so is the Foundation. Seventeen days off! Seventeen whole days away from work. Life is good!

Pete sure was shocked when he saw the gunshot wound in my abdomen. It was a present from one of the goons who worked for New Plains Electric, when I tried to make Whitecloud see that a private act of terrorism was not the answer to his problems. I'm still not sure as to what really happened: a vision caused by what Whitecloud told me, a dream induced by pain from the gunshot wound, a wolf that must have been hiding in the abandoned mine, triggering chemical reactions in my mind... I don't know. Fact is that I've seen something that I won't forget. No matter if it's real or not. Not everything can always be explained by conventional science.

Anyway, when it was all over, doctor Jacobi yelled so much at Pete about me working on the edge and Pete being too demanding, that Pete could only give me time off - to be taken directly after I was declared fit for duty. 'Take time to process it all,' Jacobi had ordered me. If processing means fishing, good food and time to read and watch a movie, I'm going to comply!

There's a beautiful spot in the north of California, not far from where Harry used to live. An old friend of Harry owns it, and offered me once to use it if I wanted to take a break.

It's a long drive, but with this weather it's a treat. It's pretty cold, too cold actually to drive with the top of the Jeep down, but I rather put on an extra jacket than miss out on the great feeling of freedom, wind in my hair and the late October sun on my face. It sure is good to be alive.

(tbc)


	2. Chapter 2

After almost four hours of driving it was sight for sore eyes when MacGyver spotted the sign on the left side of the road: Bunker's Cave, 4 mls. It was a mystery to him why anyone would call it a cave: it was a small but comfortable house on top of Bunker's Hill, overlooking the deep gorge of the river Adelina. It was set in a beautiful area, green and lush, full of nature and wildlife. Fishing in the Adelina was great, and it were summer, it would have been perfect to go for a swim in it too. But since it was October MacGyver decided to stick to fishing. Fact was, that despite the heating in the Jeep, his hands and legs were cold now, and he was beginning to feel pretty stiff from the long journey and the chill that encircled him. This was definitely the last day that he could drive in the open Jeep. As of tomorrow he would reinstall the linen roof and put back the doors too.

The road to Bunker's Cave met with a beautiful wooden bridge, that spanned almost sixty yards and connected the rocks on either side of the river. It was a two-way bridge, old but still in pristine condition. The Jeep had no problem with the track that led to the bridge and went easily over the red muddy underground. MacGyver drove onto the bridge when he saw something lying on the wooden planks, about halfway. He shifted gear and drove up to it slowly. That was odd - it was a boulder. A big one. Right in the middle of the bridge. How did it get there? Had someone lost it, had it fallen off a cart or a pickup truck?

MacGyver got out of the Jeep, took a few steps to the boulder and looked around. There was no sign of anyone. The forest on either side of the bridge was quiet, there was no sound of a car vanishing in the distance. Just the birds in the trees and the water beneath his feet.

He would have to remove it all by himself. He thought for a second, decided on putting it in the back of the Jeep and then ditch it on the other side of the bridge. Any other person would have pushed it over the side of the bridge, dropping it into the swirling water thirty feet below, but MacGyver didn't. You never knew what could be lying in that depth, or how such a big boulder could affect the natural current.

So MacGyver bend his knees, placed his hands under the sides of the boulder, lifted it - and nearly fell backwards.

'What the...' It wasn't heavy at all. MacGyver had almost lost his balance because he hadn't expected it to be so light. 'I'll be damned...' he muttered, and pushed the nail of his thumb into the "rock". The top layer came off easily and revealed the underlying texture of polystyrene. 'It's a prop,' a surprised MacGyver said out loud. That meant someone really must have lost it. Then he turned it over. The moment he saw the white painted letters on the bottom of the prop, his heart sank and it was as if an ice cold wind paralysed him. The white words danced like neon lights in front of his eyes: AU REVOIR MACGYVER.

In one big jump MacGyver was back at the Jeep, rammed the gear in reverse and planked the gas. Back, back, back! The tyres screeched, leaving rubber residue on the wooden bridge. Faster, faster! Thirty yards, twenty five, twenty...

Then the bridge exploded.

It wasn't a loud bang. Instead, it was a series of curt, dry, popping sounds in a short rapid rhythm, followed by the cracking of breaking planks. Wood splintered like match sticks, flying in every direction.

MacGyver felt the Jeep topple over as the beams and boarding beneath the car broke. In a reflex he jumped out of the Jeep, flying over the edge, then desperately grabbing around to anything he could get his hands on. Splinters drove themselves into the palms of his hands when he was able to grab a beam. For a few seconds he hung there while all around him the bridge fell apart.

Then, over the crashing sound, he heard a familiar voice.

'Goodbye MacGyver!'

Murdoc! A wild laugh, maniacal, hysterical even, came from the edge of the forest on the opposite side of the bridge, and in a flash, MacGyver spotted a well-known figure, standing there to see him meet his Maker. Then the beam he held onto, broke, and MacGyver could do nothing to stop himself from falling. The sound of Murdoc laughing echoed in his ears. How could it... where did he...

But there was no time to think.

MacGyver hit the water hard. Rocks were hidden just beneath the bubbling surface. By a miracle MacGyver didn't land on top of those but a cry escaped his lips when the Jeep, that plummeted down amidst a cascade of wood, hit him. He screamed in agony as he could feel the bone snapping when the bumper crushed it. Water filled his mouth, his nose, his vision. He was dragged under. Like a madman, MacGyver struggled to avoid getting caught under the Jeep. The water was very cold, and the current was much stronger than what it had looked like from the bridge. MacGyver pushed himself sideways, could feel the heavy weight of the Jeep going a different direction and tried to reach the surface. Air! He needed to breath! His leg! The pain made him want to scream but there was no time, not a moment to give in to it. He had to go on, he had to fight to get some air into his lungs.

With barely any time to gasp, MacGyver was pulled under again and the current threw him up and down, left and right, back and forth, in a wild, uncontrollable rage. The water was now his biggest enemy. He swallowed it, couldn't stop it from running into his nose and throat, while all the time he worked like crazy to get away from the dazzling forces engulfing him. Vortexes threw him from one pit into the other and MacGyver knew he had to get out of there. His leg was killing him and it wouldn't be long before exhaustion would win. Frantically, he searched for something to hold onto, a rock that would keep him above water, a broken down tree, a branch - anything. But he couldn't. Anything he could touch was swept away by the water in a different direction than he was. Rocks were too slippery or too sharp - he cut himself deeply and painfully and had to let go. The river dragged him onwards, and unstoppably he tumbled down a small waterfall. The water wasn't too deep here, but it was running so wildly that he had no chance of getting up, especially with one severely injured leg.

Just as he thought he was going to lose this battle, his fingers found wood. A beam. A part of the bridge itself, which had come down too. In a sheer act of desperation he threw himself onto it, lifted his injured leg as if he was mounting a horse, and then held on to it for dear life. It was impossible to stay upright. All MacGyver's skills were useless against this raging ice cold monster. He blinked to get the water from his eyes, peered around to see safety, but it was hopeless. There was nothing he could do, not with this leg and the pain that brought red balls to his peripheral vision. He had to go with the flow and wait for the water to be calmer, so he could get himself to the side, to dry land. For half a minute or so, the beam and its panting traveller bobbed along, then another current got hold of it and dragged it towards a second waterfall. Macgyver braced himself. He couldn't see how deep it was, but he recognised, through the mist of pain and cold and the drumming in his ears, the threshold-like behaviour of water - behind it, the river would fall down, straight like a curtain. There was no telling how far the fall would be.

As MacGyver went over the edge, he could swear he heard Murdoc's voice again. 'Goodbye MacGyver! Goodbye!'

It was a fight MacGyver couldn't win. He couldn't tell anymore what was up or down, what was water and what was air. The noise of the water drowned out all other sounds. He struggled still, but his strength was fading fast. The cold, the pain in his brutally tormented body and the sheer force of the Adelina river sapped him of his last reserves.

_You win, Murdoc. After all you've tried, you win_, was the last thing on MacGyver's mind, before he hit his head against a rock and the lights went out.

(tbc)


	3. Chapter 3

_**Helen**_

Days like these are beautiful, vicious traps. Set-ups from the gods to make you believe the rest of the day will be sunny after all the rain and poor weather. The sunshine is so bright that it messes with your vision and if you're not careful, you're blinded by it. You can too far easily, the weather can change very quickly and you'll find yourself in the cold and in darkness much faster than you thought was possible.

The dogs are less susceptive to my carefulness. Jock and Reggie are all frolicky and happy, and bark and jump around like crazy. But I know better than to fool myself, so I put on a thick coat before I go outside. The dogs can run all they want, the garden and the land behind it, is all mine, so it's theirs too. The sunshine on my face is delightful but I know that in a few hours time, when the sun disappears behind the rim of the hills, it'll be cold - very cold. Night frost set in two weeks back and that's early this year.

Suddenly Jock stops and, somewhere close to the pebble beach and begins to bark nervously. My dogs are my extra eyes and ears, and they notice more than I can, so when one of them alarms me, I take a look. I recognise the way Jock barks, and this is not just a rabbit or a hare he's trying to catch. This is something else.

I stop close to the calm little waves of the river.

Something must have happened, higher up in the hills. There's strange driftwood everywhere, planks and pieces of board, nails still in them. The river takes it along and tiny waves make the debris wash ashore. Carefully, not to slip away on the wet pebbles, I step forward and fish a big chunk out of the water. It's wet, but not rotting - so it's fresh. Did someone lose this at the bridge near Bunker's Hill? The nails are brown with rust, and oddly shaped, as if this piece of timber was ripped off something.

Jock has taken off again, running further, followed by Reggie and as if the two dogs are one, they start barking at exactly the same moment. I can't see properly where they are or what they've found - my view is hindered by some bushes and a broken off tree that's washed ashore.

'Alright, alright, I'm coming!' Jock jumps back and forth, nervously, as if he wants to come back and urge me to move faster. 'What is it, lads? What is it you want me to...'

And then, the rest of the sentence gets stuck in my throat. There, stuck in the leafless branches of the beech that's drifted to a halt here, is a man.

(tbc)


	4. Chapter 4

GOOD TO BE ALIVE

_**Mac **_

The first thing I notice when I realise I'm in the land of the living, is the pain in my leg. O god, my leg! My leg! And my head! It's... it feels like it's gonna explode! O jeez, my leg...

Why am I so cold? I am wet. So terribly, terribly cold...! What is that clattering sound I keep hearing? Is it... is it me? My teeth? Where am I? What is going on?

Get your act together, Mac. Gawd, my chest hurts. Did I crack a rib? My leg, my head, my hands... everything hurts.

Wake up, I tell myself again, and get yourself out of the cold. Despite the overwhelming feeling to keep my eyes closed, to huddle up and get warm, to shut the world out, I know I must listen to myself.

What happened? As I'm beginning to recall, it comes to me in confusing flashes: the prop on the bridge that made me pull over, the message Murdoc left me, the jump I made for safety, the bridge that went up in the air, and then water, water and more water. I can still hear Murdoc's voice echoing in my mind. Then suddenly I taste blood, mixed with water and sand from the river.

Vaguely, I'm aware of someone getting a hold of my arms and pulling at me. And then, suddenly, the pain in my leg and my head overwhelms me. Let me go! Leave me alone, stay away from me. Don't move me! Darkness beckons me and while I swallow away the bile that rises, I give up on trying to get my eyes open.

'Hey! Stay with me!'

That's... that's not my voice. That's not me.

'Come on, mister...'

It's a woman's voice. She sounds both angry as well as worried. 'Help me out, mister. I can't get you inside on my own!'

I blink, squint at the pain the light causes in my head. Despite the blurriness I understand vaguely that she wants me to get onto a blanket of some kind. No, it's not a blanket - it's an oilcloth. I don't know how I manage, but I crawl onto the plastic-like material, and I am aware of tugging, sounds of dogs barking and panting. My own laboured breathing or that of the woman?

'Stay awake!' she warns me. It's more of a plea than an order, and feeling that I've made to it some kind of safety, my body gives up on me. Everything goes dark as a blanket of forgetfulness covers me. 

_**Helen **_

'Come on Jock, Reggie. Pull!' I shout at the dogse and tug at the rope that's been knotted to rings in the corners of the oilcloth, gaining a feet a time. It's perhaps not the best way to get an injured man away from the river and into my house, but I have no idea how to do it differently.

I was so shocked to see this poor fellow, just hanging there... I stepped over to the tree, half laying in the water, half on the pebbles, the man caught in between. I brought my fingers to his neck and searched for the jugular. His skin was wet and so very cold that I feared for a moment that he was already dead, but then I found a soft, vague and weak pulse. It was there. But this man was clearly suffering from hypothermia and so badly injured that he needed care very quickly.

The beech saved his life. I saw his leg, noticed the strange angle and instantly knew it was broken. If he hadn't been caught up in that tree, he would have drowned. The river is deep in the middle. It's a good thing the dogs found him. He wouldn't have lasted much longer.

First I freed him from the tree, then I put my hands under his armpits and dragged him as far as I could onto the dry pebbles. His body shuddered in pain or shock. He is tall, slender and I don't think I've ever seen anyone so pale, while being alive. I tore open his soaking wet clothes and listened, my ear to his icecold chest and... thank god for a steady heartbeat! He had a deep, nasty gash running over the left side of his face, and blood was streaming much too fast for my liking. I patted his face a couple of times, tried him to wake up and after a couple of futile attempts his eyelids fluttered and he opened them a little.

'Hey. Can you hear me?'

I don't think he did. He looked totally lost, then pain from his leg hit him and he grew almost ashen as he shrieked and moaned: _my leg... my head..._

"I've got to get you to my house,' I said. 'But I can't do it on my own. You have to get up, can you stand?'

Stand up - ha! Ridiculous. The man was hardly aware that I was there, let alone be able to push himself up. I knew that I had to act quickly before he'd fall into oblivion again, so I ran back to the house and got a big oilcloth and a rope from the shed. The rope is my pulling chord, and I'm really sorry that I literally have to drag him along, but there's no other way I can get the job done.

'Hey!' I scream at him. His teeth clatter from cold and shock. 'Stay with me!'

I can tell he tries, but fails woefully. Poor man. His body goes lax and I decide to move fast. While he is unconscious, he might suffer less from the hard trip I'm going to put him through.

While the sun is sinking, the dogs and I work our best to get the man to the house. I've put a piece of cardboard under his broken leg, to protect it from the underground. It's all very amateurish, and I feel clumsy but somehow I manage to drag the makeshift gurney all the way up to my house. It's impossible to get the man onto a bed, so I get a mattress out, put it onto the floor in front of the fire place and before I put him down, I undress my involuntary visitor.

I swallow and take a deep breath. His injuries make my stomach churn.

(tbc)


	5. Chapter 5

GOOD TO BE ALIVE - chapter 5

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Helen Stanford was a loner. She didn't like company. It was a defence shield she had put up a long time ago, and after all those years it had become second nature rather than an act. She had learned to appreciate silence and quiet, the nature she was fond of, the wildlife and the dogs, cats and birds she surrounded herself with. In her own way, she was content with the life she was living and she would have lived like this for years more, if it hadn't been disturbed by the unexpected arrival of the man on the mattress in front of the fire place.

'You know, mister - I don't usually take strangers in,' she said to the still person she had covered with a duvet. 'I mean, it's only trouble. You being injured and all, you don't need to worry I'll kick you out, but I'm not going to make a habit out of this.'

She sat down next to him, opened a bottle of disinfectant and began to tend to the head wound. It was deep and she noticed how he flinched when the sting of the alcohol reached it, but that didn't stop her and she worked quickly and skilfully. Ten minutes later there was neat line of small band aids, closing up the flesh wound.

'There. That's better,' she said, eyeing her work and pulling the duvet aside to see to the rest of his bare body.

He mumbled something. Softly. Scared. Yet Helen was sure she heard him mutter _thank you_ and something that even sounded as _sorry_, although that was most likely her imagination.

His face struck her as... kind. Though obviously in pain, there was something friendly about him that she couldn't quite put her finger on.

'You've been shot,' she said in surprise, her voice softer and with less bravado as she counted the numerous scars on his torso. The entry wound in his lower abdomen was a recent one, others were faded and had lost the redness this one still had. 'Who are you? What is your line of work?'

A shudder ran through the man's body. He was running a fever, which was only natural after the ordeal he'd been through. Helen realised she had to work on his leg, and quickly too. The longer the fracture would remain untreated, the bigger the chances of complications with lasting effects. From the fireplace she took a piece of wood, and placed it between his lips. The soft warmth from his breath touched her fingers. 'I'm sorry, mister, but there's no easy way to do this,' she apologised in advance.

Setting a bone was something Helen had done more often in her life, but never in her own house and hardly ever without an X-ray or someone else to help her. For now, she would have to rely on her instinct and her knowledge.

'Come here, Jock,' she urged the heaviest dog of the two animals, which were watching her. Jock, a beautiful black and white sheepdog, got up and waited for her to tell him what to do. She ushered him on top of the patient's stomach. 'Keep him there, Jock,' she said by means of command. Of course, Jock wouldn't be able to hold him, but she hoped that his weight would keep the injured man from pulling away at the wrong moment.

She took a last look at the bandages and pieces of board she had prepared, took hold of the man's lower leg and without another moment of hesitation she pulled hard.

The man gasped and he clenched his teeth so fiercely that Helen heard the small piece of wood cracking, then his body lost its tension and with a soft sigh the air he had been holding left his lips. Jock startled but held his stance. Nervously he looked from the man to Helen and barked once, softly.

'It's all right, Jock,' she said reassuringly. 'Good boy. Step off of him now. Easy...' Instantly she knew that it had worked. Under her sensitive fingers she had felt the bone snapping back into place. First she rinsed the leg carefully, then she bandaged it, using thick cotton wads to produce an overall even pressure to the leg; after that, with fast, professional hands she made a cast, using pieces of wood from an old crate and the remaining bandages.

'There you go, mister. Sorry I had to hurt you. Now it's up to you,' she said softly, all sternness gone from her voice as she saw his face, covered in a thin sheet of sweat. 'You just sleep. Rest will do the trick from here on.'

She finished her caretaking by covering him up again, careful not to put any pressure from the duvet on his injured leg. He needed to keep warm, and get the fever from his system. After poking a bit in the fire and putting another log on, she poured herself a large whiskey, sat back in a chair and while stroking Reggie's ears, Helen looked at the hurting man on the floor. His face was lit by the light of the fire. He wasn't looking good, but better than when she found him.

Her fingers trembled as she brought the whiskey glass to her lips.

_Pull yourself together, Helen, _she told herself. Easier said than done. It had been long ago since she'd done what she was trained to do. Too long.

Reggie put his head on her leg and looked at her. 'Don't worry, Reggie. It'll be all right,' she promised him, and while stroking the dog's head, she sipped her whiskey and lost herself in thoughts as the hours ticked away.

(tbc)


	6. Chapter 6

GOOD TO BE ALIVE - chapter 6

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_**Mac**_

I know I'm in bed. And – I know I'm dreaming. Yet I must be awake. Murdoc is here. I can't see him, but I can hear him. He has this maniacal laugh and a touch of madness to his voice, that I'd recognise out of a thousand voices. He screams, happily: 'Au revoir, MacGyver! Goodbye!'

But he IS here. He has an axe. The blades catches light and it seems to hover over my legs. Or is it... no - it's an arrow. A... a cherub? With an arrow? Is it aiming at my heart?

'No!' I tell him. 'Don't do this, Murdoc. You won, I've told you before.'

'I never win, MacGyver,' he shrieks with a high-pitched voice. 'You always escape me. But not this time. Goodbye!'

'No! Nooooo!' I cry out, can't help myself, duck sideways to avoid the axe, but a knife flashes mere inches from my face. Then, suddenly, my head is under water. I splutter, hiccup, cough, gasp for air. He's pushing me under, drowning me. Pete! Is that Pete? Hands on my shoulders, fingers grabbing onto me.

I break through the surface and pant: 'Pete! Help me! Murdoc is... Murdoc - he's here!'

But it's not Pete. And the hands aren't pulling me up to safety, they're pushing me down, back into the water. Jeez, I'm so cold. Snow? What's all this snow? Where can I get out? Help! Help me! Pete! Where's my ski-pole? Can I... I need to... Man, I'm cold. A popsicle. Popsicle? Why do I think of... where does that come from? Murdoc! Where is he?

No, let me go! I'm... I'm not well. The axe! My leg! Aaaah... my leg. My head. There's blood running down my face. There was an explosion. Balls of fire everywhere, in shapes of giant black-and-orange coloured mushrooms. I have to go, I have to get out of here. Murdoc is...

'Shhh. No Murdoc here. Take it easy.'

Pete? 'Pete, is that you?'

'No, my name is Helen.'

'I need to find Pete. Tell him Murdoc is alive.'

'Yeah sure. But not now. You need to rest.'

'Are you... is that you, Nikki?'

The voice laughs softly. Then the hands start pulling me under again. I choke and gag.

'Sssshhhh, easy does it.'

'Murdoc... Murdoc! He's... The bridge... I...'

'There's no Murdoc. Calm down, you're dreaming.'

I am dreaming. I knew it. 'But...'

'Shhh. Now listen to my voice. Relax. Calm down. Try to get some sleep. There's no one here who will hurt you. It's over. You're safe.'

Something stings. 'No... no... no needles!' Panic rises, but then that gentle voice is back.

'It's for the pain. It'll help you sleep.'

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_**Helen**_

In the pockets of his clothes I stumbled upon some personal items. A strange collection of things it is and for a moment it felt as if I emptied the contents of the pocket of a fifteen year old. Some small change, a few wrinkled, wet and creased dollars, a Swiss pocket knife, a hanky, a flattened roll of duct tape (what the hell would anyone carry that around for?), a shoelace, two paperclips and an ID.

My guest's name is A. MacGyver. That's what the name and the photo on the ID tell me, anyway. Phoenix Foundation? Never heard of that before. The photo is a dull picture, but at least I can see his regular appearance. Brown tousled hair with blond streaks, brown eyes. He looks attractive without the cuts and bruises to his face.

So what is the A for? Andrew? Albert? Ashton? Avery? Aaron? Those names don't seem to fit him. He's asleep now, but I had to push him back or he would have tried to make a run for it. I really feel sorry for him. He's hunted by nightmares, and from what I gather, he's been through some pretty extreme events in his life. Murdoc, that name scares the hell out of him, that much is clear. And the other name, Pete or Peter – that must be a friend. A brother perhaps? He mentioned a _Nikki_ too, but only once or twice.

I've bandaged his chest. Man, that was a huge bruise. If that's a cracked rib, I pray to god that it won't puncture his lung and get him even farther from home. His leg looks a wee bit better. His toes, peeping out of the improvised cast, feel warm enough and they have a healthy, rosy shine, nothing ominous or overly swollen. I'm not sure about his head though. It's pretty badly swollen, and if that works its way inside... there's no telling how the pressure on his brain might get. But for now, he's holding out. Despite the fever and the haunted dreams, he seems to be coping.

It's been more than two days now, and I am so very, very tired.

I've dozed off in the chair of couple of times, and I've not been able to walk the dogs or check on the birds. I daren't leave him alone, not with the fever induced state he drifts in and out of. He'd be trying to stand up during such a dream and with that leg of his... I can't lose him out of my sight until he's awake or responsive.

Just as I drift away into a restless nap again, I hear him mumbling. Can't hear what he's saying, but the shivering breaths he takes, says enough.

It'll be a couple of days more before he's out of the woods, this Mr A. MacGyver.

(tbc)


	7. Chapter 7

GOOD TO BE ALIVE - chapter 7

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MacGyver woke up from and sank back into oblivion over the course of the following days, pain etching lines on his face. Helen offered him comfort when and if she could, making him drink little sips of water, every now and then administering him a painkiller. Around midday of the third day, he was going through the worst. His fever was spiking, the pain in his leg and head peaked and he moaned, from deep within, a soft animalistic cry that made Helen's stomach churn. For a few hours she wasn't sure if he was going to live or die.

She knew the worst was over when, around three in the afternoon, two days later, after a much calmer night, he began to stir, and opened his eyes properly for the first time. Slowly he turned his head, looked from the fireplace to the room he was in, lifted his hands, wiggled his fingers and then tried to lift his head.

'Ouch.'

Helen got up from her chair at the desk and sat down on a small stool next to MacGyver on the mattress.

'Hi.'

'Hi,' he said hoarsely, looking puzzled as to his surroundings and her face. Helen picked up a glass of water and put a straw between his lips. MacGyver wanted to sit up, but she pushed him back gently.

'Stay down. Your head isn't up to it just yet.'

'Tell me about it,' grunted MacGyver. 'Have we met?'

'Well, I must have introduced myself about ten times in the last couple of days, but seeing you don't remember... My name is Helen Stanford.'

'MacGyver. Mac.' MacGyver brought his hand to his chin. Stubble. Then he felt his hair. Rough, greasy, unkempt. His fingers found the trail of tiny band-aids, like butterflies covering his temple and part of his cheekbone. 'How long have I been out?'

'Five days,' Helen said.

Five days? MacGyver's face wrinkled in a desperate attempt to remember five missing days. He looked down at his leg. It was uncooperative, and wedged firmly in something that held between a splint and a cast, but it was done with care. 'Did you do this?'

'Yes.'

'Thanks.'

Helen let her eyes run over him, from head to toe. 'Your leg's broken, perhaps you've busted a rib or two and you sure hit your head pretty hard.'

'I did? Feels like it.' MacGyver struggled to grasp the extend of his injuries.

'Plus you must have swallowed at least a gallon of Adelina.'

Of what?

'The river,' she said when she saw he didn't understand her. 

* * *

Helen was only a few years older than MacGyver. She was a petite woman, with an efficient air about her. Her brown hair was short and spiky. She had an intelligent, cautious glance in her brown eyes that looked at him through thin spectacles. Her hands, he noticed as she put the glass back, were small. No wedding band, no jewellery. She was dressed in blue jeans and a brick red sweatshirt.

'This is your house?'

Helen nodded. 'Yep. Maison Stanford.'

MacGyver couldn't suppress a smile and received one in return.

'How do you feel? Hurting?'

'I'm okay,' MacGyver lied. Again, she smiled.

'Yeah, yeah. Are you up to something to eat?'

'I'm not really hungry,' he answered truthfully. The unsettling feeling of nausea proved his unmistakable concussion. 'Thirsty though.'

'I'll get you some very light soup,' Helen said. 'A bit of salt and fluids will do you good.'

She stood up and rummaged around in the adjacent kitchen. The longer MacGyver was awake, the more questions rose. But his brain couldn't hold on to what came up. He found it hard to focus. Slowly he let his gaze go through the room.

He was lying on the floor, on a mattress, and although he was on the ground, he was comfortably supported by pillows and close to the fire. Beneath the duvet he was naked, apart from his boxer shorts, and as he moved his hands carefully over his body, he discovered the thick bandage around his ribcage. If he tried taking a deep breath, it was as if someone was tearing him into two. Bad idea.

The room he was in, was a living room. Windows with the blinds half open on either side of the room. A pair of binoculars was resting on the window sill, next to a notepad and some writing tools.

He saw a desk with papers, letters, envelopes and an old-fashioned typewriter. An impressive collection of books was stacked neatly in a rack at the opposite side of the room. There were drawings and paintings of birds hanging from the walls. In the corner of the room were two dogs, lying lazily but watchfully on a rug.

No pictures of a man or children, MacGyver noticed. And no telephone, as far as he could see.

Helen came in, carrying a bowl, a spoon and a napkin. 'I'll help you to the soup, for now. Next time you've got to do it yourself.' She put an extra pillow behind his back to help him sit up a bit, and sat down on the stool, feeding him the soup without talking. It took MacGyver more energy than he was willing to admit and after some ten spoonfuls or so, his stomach began to protest and his head was swimming.

'Thank you,' he mumbled and sank away deeper into the pillows. 'Sorry.'

'You're done, 'ey?' Helen understood and dabbed his mouth with the napkin. 'You look pale, Mr. MacGyver. Time for a nap.' Quickly, she brought the back of her fingers to his forehead and checked his body warmth. Then she stood up, closed the curtains and left the room.

'Helen?' In the doorway she stopped to look at him.

'What?'

'Sorry,' MacGyver said softly. 'Don't mean to cause you trouble.'

'Get some rest,' Helen said after a moment, and closed the door behind her, leaving MacGyver alone in the quiet room. He was almost sure he had heard a touch of surprise in her voice. Tiredly, he closed his eyes and was succumbed to sleep in seconds.

(tbc)


	8. Chapter 8

GOOD TO BE ALIVE - chapter 8

* * *

_**Helen**_

Maybe I've known it right away, but the fact that MacGyver apologised says it all: he's decent guy. Apologise... tsss. I'm still surprised. I mean – a _thank you_ is only natural, but an apology? Although he is awake, it's obvious that he's still long way from being his old self again. What struck me is that he didn't ask what had happened, or how he got here.

I decided on keeping my questions to myself for the time being - he's easily tired and he needs his rest.

And I need food, and medicine. I'm running short on painkillers, disinfectant, and there's not much bandage left either. Next to that the contents of my fridge is hardly suitable for MacGyver. He needs softer stuff, less heavy on the innards.

Now I know that he sleeps calmly and I don't need to worry that he's going to wander around in the house, I can take the time to see how Jeannie is doing. Finally!

Jeannie is my buzzard. She's big and beautiful and strong and undoubtedly the most intelligent bird I worked with ever.

Since the day before yesterday a silent shroud of snow has covered the land. Yep, this is the season of extremes: sunshine one day, snow the next. I put on my coat and my boots, throw open the back door and let the fresh air come in.

Ah! I was in dire need of air! Sitting in the house all day with an injured man to take care of sure isn't good for the smell in the room. Jock and Reggie are happy too, they run over the snow, push their snouts in and jump and play in the deeper layers. I walk to the back, after I've fetched my glove and a piece of raw of meat for Jeannie, I walk to the edge of the foliage and start calling her. 'Jeannie! Come here, girl! Jeannie! Come!' I make clicking sounds and keep calling her. It takes a while, and it requires patience but then, suddenly, I hear flapping of wings, leaves rustling, and there she is. My beautiful buzzard. Gently, she lands on my extended arm and lets me stroke her. I feed her the meat.

'Hello girl,' I say softly to the brilliant creature. 'You look fabulous.' Nothing else comes from my lips. It's just me and the bird. I let her fly and return to me, reward her and she comes back to me to show her prey: a mouse. It's already dead, and I know some people hate this, but to me, it's the biggest honour imaginable: Jeannie shows me what she caught.

After training and playing with her for two hours, I release her and head for the house. She squeaks before she disappears in the trees. It's only then that I remember I have MacGyver to look after.

* * *

_**Mac**_

Helen is an introvert woman. She's closed and to herself, but her cautious attitude is fading a little. I've been here for a week now, and I feel like I'm a total burden, lying here, doing nothing all the time. Nothing mostly means sleeping. Reading is difficult, the letters still dance in front of my eyes. Sometimes we talk, but although the headache is getting less, it's still very present, and I can't go on for long. The lack of appetite and my objecting stomach makes me feel weak as a kitten. There's nothing I can hold down properly without turning "all greenish" (as Helen says) and perspiration breaking out.

I've asked her what she does for a living and she's told me she studies the behavioural patterns of birds, especially birds of prey and on the side, she makes illustrations for school books. Hence the binoculars. I've seen her working with the buzzard she calls Jeannie. She's quite closed, but her eyes light up when she talks about the bird, and I can see the genuine passion that makes her beautiful.

'Give it time,' she says as she comes in, taking with her cold and fresh air from outside. She stamps her feet. Her cheeks are red, her eyes glistening. 'You want it too fast.' She must have noticed that I'm rubbing my eyes as the words are swimming in my view.

'Yeah, I know,' I agree. 'I'm a lousy patient.'

She combs her hair with fingers, looking in the mirror above fireplace.

'Cold outside?'

'It's nice. Cold, but good.'

Through the window I see the white world outside. It looks so clean and appealing, and I'd love the breathe some fresh air instead of the stale atmosphere in this room. 'Helen, is there any way I can contact the outside world?'

Surprised, she looks up. 'Why?'

'My work. I need to let my boss know what happened.'

'Your boss being...?'

'Peter Thornton. The Phoenix Foundation.'

'Ah.' She nods as if she's heard the name before. 'And do you know what happened? Do you remember?' She stands near the fireplace and checks the supply of firewood, after putting an extra log onto the fire.

'More or less,' I say, keeping myself from nodding, which is still dazzling. I tell her what I know, what's come back very vividly. I tell her about my planned holiday, the bridge, the trap, the explosion and explain about Murdoc. It ends with being caught in the wild stream and waking up in Helen's house.

When I'm done talking, I'm tired. Wearily I lower myself and sink back into the pillows again. It's frustrating to be so weak! Helen goes to the kitchen and returns with two mugs of tea and a sandwiches for her and me.

'Eat, MacGyver. You need to get your strength back. Living on broth alone isn't enough.' She sits down on the stool and warms her hands around the mug. Jock, the sheepdog, seeks the warmth and her company too. He pushes his nose against her leg and she strokes him, affectionately. Reggie comes to me and puts his warm head in my hand. The dogs accept me, the same calm way Helen does. I'm here, I need help, they offer it to me.

'You spoke of Murdoc. When you were ill,' she says.

'Yeah, I guess I have,' I admit. Don't really know but it sounds like something I could have said.

'And this Pete - he's your friend, right?'

'Yeah. A good one. He'll be worried that I haven't called to say I'm okay.'

'You always call your boss when you go on holiday, to say you're fine?' She looks up in mock surprise, one eyebrow raised.

'He's my boss but also my best friend. Family,' I assure her. The tea tastes good, for once, and cautiously I take a bite from the sandwich.

'And who's Nikki?'

'Nikki Carpenter. Colleague. We've been through things together. We always argue, but we get along fine. She's seen Murdoc too. He's nearly killed her just to get to me.'

'Bad piece of work,' she says with an understanding nod, and then, remembering the question, she shakes her head. 'No. I haven't got a phone. I had a radio, but it's busted.'

She squints her eyes a little, looking at me. 'Hey... you're not nauseous?'

'No,' I answer slowly. 'It actually feels good.'

'You're on the mend,' she nods with a smile. 'That's a good sign.'

In silence, she drinks her tea, then she stands up, leaves the room and when she comes back she's carrying all kinds of toiletries: a sponge, soap, towel, shaving cream, shampoo and such.

'Since you seem to be doing a bit better, I might as well try to get you a bit more presentable. You sure smell awful,' she tells me. 'Come on, give me an arm and I'll sit you up.' She helps to a chair, which sounds easier than it is.

'I smell awful?'

'Yeah.'

'I stink?'

'Yeah. And now shut up and enjoy the ride.'

Twenty minutes follow. In silence, she washes my hair, removes the bandage from my ribs, examines the bruise, gives me a careful but thorough sponge bath and a shave. She was right, I stank. The soft scent of soap and shampoo, the fresh feeling of my smooth chin – I'm reborn.

'Comb you hair,' she orders me by means of closure, and pushes a comb, and a tooth brush in my hand. 'And brush your teeth. You can do that yourself, I'll clean this up.'

When she comes back, she's carrying clean sheets and pillow cases, and makes my bed anew. She works so fast and it goes with such skilful ease, that I'm beginning to see her past, through the mist of the present. There's more to her than an artist or an ornithologist.

'Helen...' I take her hand as she brushes past me. 'Hold on for a second.'

'What is it?'

'Thank you. For everything you've done for me.'

She smiles. The frown vanishes, her face nice and inviting as she does. 'You're welcome.'

I look at her hands, take them in mine. Small, warm. Not the size you'd expect to carry a big bird like the buzzard. 'Mighty small hands for hard labour.'

'Bigger feet don't necessarily mean smaller ones can't go around the world as well,' she replies with a soft smile. She's finally letting go of the mask, a bit at the time, but then carefully pulls her hands from mine.

'I need to do some shopping. Running short on supplies, and with the winter setting in, I've got to be prepared. I'll buy you some clothes too. I had to cut you out of the rags you had on, and threw them all away. Think you can manage on your own for a couple of hours?'

'Sure.' I nod. 'Where's your car?'

She smiles, picks up the dirty sheets and carries the lot to the kitchen where the washing machine is. 'I haven't got one,' she calls out from the adjacent room. 'I do everything on foot. The village is less than two miles down the river.'

'Wow. No car? That's pretty unheard of. Can you help me to the kitchen? Then we can air the room while you're away.'

'Great. It is rather smelly in there too.'

We both laugh. Ouch. My ribs. Helen comes back into the room and with her aid I hobble into the kitchen. A few minutes later she's got me propped up with pillows in a fairly comfortable position, the windows in the living room are open and the doors are closed to avoid the kitchen getting cold. Helen puts a book, a drink and a package of crackers on the table for me, fetches her belongings and after the promise that she'll be back in two hours, she leaves. I watch her as she walks through the snow. Reggie stays with me, Jock goes with her. The dog happily jumps and runs through the snow, and Helen laughs and plays with him. Jeannie, the buzzard, comes flying into the yard and greets her by flying circles, just above her head.

I close my eyes. The bath has done me a world of good, and I'm glad that my stomach is getting better, but I'm worn out by now. Just before I'm drifting off, I realise that I was lucky to end up in Helen's house.

(tbc)


	9. Chapter 9

GOOD TO BE ALIVE - chapter 9

* * *

The wind, blowing in from the north, was cold as Helen walked briskly to the village. The quickest way was to follow the river, the safest way was to take the road. But Helen liked the hike and she'd done it a zillion times, with Jock and Reggie, or alone. She didn't like taking the road unless she had to, so she stuck to the water side. She hadn't been this way since she found MacGyver, and she wasn't surprised to find debris in the water and on the riverbanks, half covered by snow. A dented jerrycan, bits and pieces of plastic or metal from a car, broken off remains and some garments, torn to shreds. She picked up a shoe - one dirty sneaker – and looked at the size. MacGyver's. When she found him, he had only one shoe on. This had to be the other one. She tied it to her backpack, where it dangled as if it was a lucky charm. She could have put it in her backpack, but it was wet and half frozen, so it would probably get the inside of the pack wet, and she wanted that to stay dry for the groceries.

About half an hour later she entered the village and walked straight to Taffy's shop.

'Hey Helen,' the old man behind the counter greeted her. 'Long time no see. You've haven't been ill, have you?'

'No, just busy,' Helen said, shaking her head. Taffy was friendly old guy, but rather nosy. 'What's with the shoe?' he asked.

'I found it on the river bank.'

'Aye, I've heard lots of people having found stuff lying everywhere. Have you heard that the bridge has collapsed?' Taffy didn't wait for an answer and continued: 'There's talk of a Jeep at the bottom of the waterfall, but it's too cold now and the water is too high and wild to retrieve it.'

'Driver? Passengers?' Helen asked.

'No one knows. No bodies found,' Taffy replied, shaking his head. 'That might mean that the driver perished in the Adelina. Or, he managed to get out before the bridge collapsed. Hopefully that's what happened. It'll be terrible to find the body of the poor bugger in the spring, knowing he's drowned in The Old Lady.' His eyebrows shot up as he looked at the medical supplies Helen had picked out. She could tell from his face that he was adding one and one. 'What's all this for, Helen?'

It was on the tip of Helen's lips to snap at Taffy to mind his own business. But somewhere in the back of her head, she remembered MacGyver's tale about Murdoc. If that man was half as evil as MacGyver had told her, he might as well be around to check if his vicious plan had succeeded. She had to be careful with what she said.

'I'm going on a hike for a couple of days. Need to be well prepared. My first aid kit is twelve years old, poorly filled and nearly all medication was out of date.' She collected the items she needed, and Taffy, used to Helen's routine, put most of the heavy stuff in a cardboard box, while she filled her backpack with what she wanted to take with her right away.

'A hike? Where're you off to?'

'Check on an eagles nest, nearly Bunker's Hill.' She hoisted the backpack back on.

'Then you need to go to Mayola, and cross the river there.' Helen shrugged, feigning lack of interest, paid him and Taffy put his hand on the box. 'I'll have Bill deliver this as usual. This evening, otherwise tomorrow morning.'

'Thanks,' Helen nodded and left the store.

Next. She needed clothes for MacGyver.

--

Marcia Fields, owner of the only store in the village that sold clothing, raised her eyebrows questioningly as Helen put the men's clothes down on the counter. 'Shirts, jeans, underwear, socks... men's stuff. For who is this, Helen?'

Again, Helen was careful. 'A colleague birdwatcher is coming over. Straight from Florida, so he's not equipped for this weather. Thought I'd tackle frozen feet and a cold since he probably has no idea.'

Marcia nodded. 'Good thinking. You need anything yourself?'

Helen shook her head. 'No. That'll do.' After paying, she stuffed the clothes in her backpack and left. She hoped she hadn't said too much. Usually she wasn't very talkative, and she already thought she raised more eyebrows than usual with her shopping. People in this town were too curious to her liking. But they usually let her be, minding their own business because she was so closed. Hopefully she didn't raise suspicion with what she had said.

The last thing she had to do was make a phone call. She went to Sal's bar, ordered coffee and a jelly roll, then went into the back to where the phone was.

--

'Phoenix Foundation, Thornton speaking,' a voice said.

'Peter Thornton?'

'Yes, this is he. Who is this?'

'I'm calling on behalf of MacGyver,' Helen said cautiously. The voice was pleasant, and it pleased her to hear the obvious worry when the other said: 'MacGyver?! Is he alright? Who are you?!'

'He's fine. My name is Helen Stanford. He asked me to call you to tell you he's okay.'

'What happened?' Thornton sounded as if he wanted to crawl through the telephone wire and come straight over. It brought a smile to Helen's lips.

'He says Murdoc has tried to kill him. Nearly got his way.'

'Murdoc?! But... Is Mac... is he injured? Can I talk to him?'

'Some broken bones, but he's recovering. I'm not calling from home, I haven't got a phone. So no, I can't put him on.'

Helen could almost hear Thornton thinking. 'Do you need help? Does Mac need help? Where are you?'

'Mac asked me not to tell you. Murdoc might be listening in,' Helen said. It sounded like a bad movie. 'For his own safety. He'll contact you in his own time.'

'Miss Stanford...' Apparently Thornton was lost for words for a second.

'Mr Thornton, he's okay, really. He's been pretty sick for a couple of days, but it's all mending. Broken bones need time. The less anyone knows about it, the better. Trust me.'

She heard Thornton sighing. 'Alright. Ask him to call me as soon as he can.'

'There's one more thing. Mac said you should check the lines. Murdoc knew where he was heading, and the hit was planned well in advance.'

Thornton mulled that over for a few seconds, and then promised he would.

'Gotta go,' Helen said and before Thornton could say a word more, she hung up. She checked her watch. Good. Less than 45 seconds. The call couldn't be traced. Not by the Foundation, but more importantly: not by Murdoc either.

Helen ate her roll, drank her coffee, paid and left Sal's. Her regular routine, nothing out of the ordinary.

--

Two hundred miles more to the south, in Pete Thornton's office, the phone rang for the second time in a few minutes. Pete almost jumped to pick it up. 'Mac?'

There was no answer.

'MacGyver? Is that you?'

Very, very soft breathing.

'Hello?'

A click, softly, hardly audible, but unmistakably the sound of a gun being cocked. Then, an equally soft laugh, short and humourless.

Pete felt his blood turn cold. No...

Murdoc...

(tbc)


	10. Chapter 10

GOOD TO BE ALIVE - chapter 10

* * *

_**Mac **_

When I woke up this morning, I felt a lot better than I have done in days. I feel I'm on the right track at last. I'm a patient man, but not when I'm somehow disabled by an injury or a illness. It's such a waste of time.

This is the first time that I've woken up before Helen comes in with breakfast. I hear her in the bathroom, I listen to her singing softly under the shower, and when she is busy in the kitchen. So I surprise her when she comes in and I'm sitting straight.

'Morning. Look who's up.'

'Good morning.' She looks... different, somehow. At ease. Not so tensed and closed anymore. The dogs come in and greet me too.

'Hungry?'

Yeah, I am and I nod. Helen smiles to the good news and instead of eating on my sickbed, I decide to sit at the table, which pleases her a lot.

'Well, you're one happy patient.'

'Actually, I feel good,' I reply, as I get settled on the chair with my leg up. 'My ribs, my head, my leg... they're actually a lot better.'

'How's the vision?'

'Fine. One of you, one of me. Sounds normal.' I smile at her but Helen waves at me with a fork. 'Don't you get any ideas. You're on the way up but... no walking on that leg for at least four more weeks, if you don't want to remain cripple for the rest of your life. Or keep having headaches. Now eat.'

'Yes ma'am,' I obey. 'Say Helen, you told you had radio, but it was busted.'

'That's right,' she nods.

'You still got it?'

'Yeah. I meant to have it repaired, but just never got around to taking it to a shop.'

'Can I see it? I might be able to fix it.'

'Sure. But I'm not really in need of contact with the outer world. I haven't missed it at all.' She smiles, pours me tea and cup of coffee for herself.

'Why not?'

She shrugs and looks away as she says: 'Because. I'm much to myself.'

'You haven't told me why you're so good with injuries and broken bones.' I am curious, and I would really like to know where she picked up those skills. But Helen doesn't answer. Instead, she stands up and starts clearing the table. 'I'll put a chair for you in the bathroom, so you can do your thing there.'

'Helen, why don't you tell me? Why are you living like a hermit, all alone out here?' I touch her hand, as she stands next to me to take away my plate, but she pulls back as if stung by a bee. Okay. There's no need to push on. I put my hand down. 'Sorry,' I tell her.

'It's okay.' There it is again. The shield she's pulling up the moment I get to close.

Back to reality then. I'm shifting in my chair, looking around.

'What are you looking for?' she asks, seeing me scanning the room.

'Something I can use as a crutch, or a cane. I used a coat stand once, but yours is hanging from the wall. By the way, you sure have a lot of books.'

'Yeah, and pencils and paper, but that's not helping you,' she smiles. 'There's plenty of wood in the shed. I can take a look there to see if there's anything?' She then points to a plastic bag that sits in the corner of the room. 'If you want to get dressed, there're some clothes for you in the bag. The jeans won't fit while you're leg is still in the splint, but the tracking suit should work.'

She helps me to the bathroom and while I'm busy freshening up, I can hear sounds from outside. When she comes back, she's carrying a couple of branches, planks, pieces of rope and a toolcase. 'I'll get the radio,' she says and disappears again, but this time into a cellar I wasn't aware of. 'You need anything else? There's bad weather coming up, and I'd like to train Jeannie while it's still good outside.'

While Helen is outside with the dogs and the buzzard, I work on fixing myself a crutch. After fifteen minutes I have a crude but strong walking aid, and when I stand up carefully and put my weight on it, it works fine. My mood rises a notch again. Being able to move about is a whole lot better than having to wait for help if I need the bathroom.

When I wake up from an afternoon nap, Helen is busy with her work and is quiet while drawing, fully concentrated on the details of a picture of an eagle. She's extremely good at it. In fact, she amazes me with everything she does. No matter if it's cooking or taking care of my injuries, drawing, writing, dog and bird training – it all adds up, time and time again.

I hobble over to her and look at the picture. It's beautiful.

'This is great,' I say admiringly and she nods in acknowledgement, rolling her head to get the stiffness from her neck and shoulders.

'For the radio, I need some aluminium foil, and wires. Have you got some old electric junk that I can use?'

'Sure.' She gestures to crate under the bookshelves, then – remembering I'm a bit short handed right now – stands up quickly, sets it on the table and goes back to her work. 'I'm sorry, I need to finish this before my paint dries.'

It doesn't take me long to find what's wrong and with some fiddling and the remains of an old flashlight and a piece of wiring, I get the radio up and running again. The signal is weak, but with a bit of good will and some tuning sending and receiving is possible. 'That seems to work again,' I tell Helen, who rinses her brushes with a tired, but content look on her face.

I'm tired too. I like being busy with electronics, but my head is telling me that I've done enough for now.

'You look beat,' Helen says. 'You've taken on too much.' She goes to the kitchen to wash her hands.

'Ah come on, Helen. It's relaxing. I'm not doing any jogging just yet.' As I turn around to try and push the crate back under the shelves, my eye catches a stack of interesting magazines: National Geographic. As I reach for a few copies, something slips out from behind the pile and falls to the ground. An album. With a little effort I manage to pick it up from the ground and, my curiosity tickled, I open it. Turning the pages I see a much younger Helen, in surroundings that look like a jungle. She's wearing a kind of uniform. A man appears in several photos as well. Tall, with dark curls and dark eyes, a stethoscope hanging from his neck in some snapshots.

There are pictures of groups of people, all clad in uniform, standing in the bright sunshine, or in rainy swamp-like forests. The pages make cracking sounds as I leaf through them. It's been years since this album has been opened. The adhesive has come undone and not all pictures stick to the pages anymore. A photo of the guy with the dark curls slips out from between two pages and like a leaf, it falls to the ground. I'm trying to pick it up, but I can't reach it.

'What have you... where did this come from?' Helen has come back and anger flashes over her face. 'Why are you going through my things?' She snatches the photo from the ground and the album from my hands. Her eyes are dark with dismay.

'I'm sorry, I didn't mean to snoop. The album fell from the shelve when I took out a magazine.'

Helen puts the photo of the man back without looking at it, and, to my horror, she throws the album in the fire. Instantly flames curl up around the leather cover.

'What are you doing?! Why?'

'Mind your own business,' she snarls. Without another word she stamps out of the house.

'Helen!'

I make my way to the window, see her taking off, angry and upset, through the snow, heading for the river. Jock follows but he feels her mood, because he stays subdued and keeps his distance.

Helen... I am sorry. What did I do?

(tbc)


	11. Chapter 11

GOOD TO BE ALIVE - chapter 11

* * *

Tears from pure frustration ran down Helen's cheeks, warm and salty in the corners of her mouth, as she headed for the river. She needed her privacy, more than anything she wanted to get away. A walk would help her clear her mind. She was sorry for snapping at MacGyver but... well, he...

He had stumbled onto something she hadn't thought of in a long time - the album, proof of her turbulent past. Once, years ago, she had tried to throw it away, but she couldn't. A place out of sight was where she'd put it, and she had conveniently forgotten about it during the years that followed. Seeing MacGyver holding and leafing through it, stirred up a feeling that was as fierce as a hornet's nest, and just as vicious. Why? Why did he have to find it? And why did it still get to her as much as it did?

She was so caught up in her own thoughts, that she didn't notice the sound of a car, finding its way through the woods, heading for her house.

* * *

Inside the house, MacGyver hopped on one leg to the fireplace and poked with his improvised crutch in the flames, trying to save what was left of the photo-album. The thickness of the leather protected the inner pages a little, but when he had rescued the album from the flames, most of it was burned beyond repair. Sadly, he looked at the remains.

A rush of guilt surged within him. He didn't know why Helen was so upset, but it sure wasn't his intention. He lowered himself to a chair and sighed deeply, as the room seemed to be moving and his vision got blurry. His head was throbbing again, the blood in his temple pounding. Wearily, he leant back and closed his eyes. He needed to rest, for a few minutes.

* * *

It had taken Murdoc more than a week to pick up MacGyver's trail after the phone call that Peter Thornton received. If the woman hadn't been so careless as to say her name, it might have taken Murdoc a lot longer to track her down.

When Murdoc was abroad, recuperating from the serious wounds that had been MacGyver's doing, he had stumbled upon a novelty in audio equipment: high-sensitivity counter-espionage microphones. The range of this tiny antenna was so impressive that Murdoc experimented with it until he was completely satisfied with the results. Posing as a maintenance engineer, he managed fairly easily to break into the telephone switchboard of the Phoenix Foundation and hooked the HSCEM to Thornton's line. Fact was that Murdoc wasn't interested in Peter Thornton for Peter Thornton: his real drive for listening in was MacGyver. The two Foundation men had frequent contact and it was well-known that they were close friends too. Thornton would lead Murdoc to MacGyver, when he expected it least and Murdoc could finally take him out. For ever. Because somehow the man eluded him time and time again.

The prop on the bridge was what pleased Murdoc most. From his hiding place in the bushes he had seen MacGyver stoop down to pick it up, he had seen the sheer surprise when the man he hated so much, read the message on the bottom. Then the brilliant explosion, caused by a carefully concocted mixture of chemicals, that send the bridge flying, but without the fireballs and the thundering noise that would draw too much attention to it... because the last thing Murdoc wanted was an accidental bystander coming to MacGyver's aid. Then he saw MacGyver falling into the deep. The Jeep that followed the man made Murdoc's heart leap: it hit the water in exactly the same spot as MacGyver had gone under just a second earlier. MacGyver would be caught, perhaps even squashed to death by the weight of the car.

It was difficult to see if that was what happened, and Murdoc was just about to leave when he saw MacGyver emerge, gasping for air, screaming in pain. No! That couldn't be true! How had he been able to... but Murdoc's anger soon changed into a feeling of early victory when he witnessed how MacGyver struggled frantically, how his leg hung uselessly in a peculiar angle, and how he fought to keep his head above water. MacGyver didn't stand a chance. There was no way he could swim ashore, not with his leg like that - and there was no way he could get onto dry land if he could reach it, because there were no slopes flat enough to crawl onto. Murdoc made a quick estimate: despite the sunny day he knew that the water temperature had dropped dramatically the past few weeks; by the time MacGyver would be able to get to land he would be miles and miles further and without a doubt, he would suffer from hypothermia if the current hadn't pulled him to his death before that time; at that point the Adelina was wide and very deep and if, by some miracle, he hadn't drowned by the time there were riverbanks, he would be succumbed to the cold. Sure enough, MacGyver would NOT survive. Not this time.

The last Murdoc saw of MacGyver was his hand, desperately breaking through the surface of the water and then... no more.

Murdoc had been in an ecstatic mood for days. Finally, he had beaten MacGyver to it. He, Murdoc, was the cleverest one, and MacGyver drew the shortest straw. Every now and then he was afraid his heart might jump right out of his chest, from pure joy.

That feeling lasted, until the telephone call to Peter Thornton threw him back to reality. No, not him, not Murdoc: MacGyver! Somehow, again, he had managed to come out of it alive! Not unscathed, from what Murdoc understood, but he lived. Thanks to some woman. Of course! Figured!

In a flash of fury, Murdoc had dialled Peter Thornton's number and scared the older man out of his wits by cocking his gun and uttering his bitter laugh.

And now, Murdoc was heading north. Asking the right questions to the right people in a lot of villages, lying about finding a missing friend, some financial "input"; it was lot of work but it paid off: the first anomaly was found, in the purchase of clothes and medicines that didn't fit the buyer.

'I'll get you, MacGyver!' Murdoc grunted as he pulled the steering wheel to the right and pulled off the road, after which he entered a snowy, barely visible trail that ran into the thick undergrowth and foliage leading towards the river. 'And let me assure you: a broken bone is now the least of your problems!'

(tbc)


	12. Chapter 12

GOOD TO BE ALIVE - chapter 12

* * *

_**Mac**_

With a jolt I wake up. Even though it is silent in Helen's house, and there's no immediate cause to explain it, all my senses shoot into full alert-mode. Every fibre in my body tightens, I'm ready for action. Reggie, who was dozing in front of the fire place, suddenly lifts his head as well, and stands up. His ears twitch. He's noticed something too. If there's one thing I've learned in all my years as a troubleshooter, it's never to dismiss my instincts.

I sit up, grab my crutch and listen very carefully. I can tell from Reggie's reaction that it's not Helen or Jock approaching. Then, a soft sound. So soft I would normally have missed it, but now I do hear it. There's someone outside, sneaking around the house. The snow works two ways: it muffles the sounds, but it also makes a very specific cracking sound when threaded upon. Again, I hear it.

And then I feel an icy grip in my stomach. There's only one who...

Murdoc. He's found me.

'Reggie,' I whisper and the dog comes to stand next to me. 'Ssshh... Quiet.'

Quickly I look around. The house is small, things in the room cannot provide me with some sort of shelter, I can't reach the light to mess up the electricity and the standing lamp in the corner of the room is too close to the window. Too much of a risk. I'm just not fast and mobile enough to put something together in a rush! I need to buy time!

Think MacGyver! Think!

Again look around.

The cellar - where Helen got the radio from. That's what I need, that's how I can stall. 'Come on, Reggie,' I urge the dog and make my way to the kitchen. I don't know what the cellar looks like, but it's a better place to prepare for Murdoc then being a sitting duck in the living room.

A small hatch in the floor forms the entrance to the dark cellar. Light, where is it? With my leg I can't risk going done there without proper vision. From the ceiling hangs a lonely light bulb, I can see it vaguely as daylight reflects on its smooth surface. It takes me forever to find the switch, but at last my fingers touch something in the dark, left of a small staircase.

I lower myself into the deep. I must bite my lip when I accidentally put a little weight on my leg.

The cellar turns out to be low of ceiling – I can't stand straight in here – but reasonably large in floor space. There are racks and shelves, stacked with the usual odd things you find in any cellar: food supplies, a rack filled with wine bottles, paint in tin cans and plastic buckets, busted house tools, firewood, boxes, crates, old papers and... surprise, surprise, more books in lots of boxes.

My hands scan the stuff on the shelves. Solvent in cans, a small box filled shoeshine and shoelaces, a set of teacups, candles in plastic wrappings, a broken down hammerhead... Not much to go on. I stumble onto a little box with ball bearings - that might come in handy - and put it in the pocket of my sweatshirt.

Reggie makes soft warning noises, coming from deep within. The floorboard above my head squeaks. He's inside!

'MacGyver! I know you're here! This has got your name on it!' Murdoc's voice reaches me. He's entering the kitchen, taking a look at the work I did on the radio. Reggie growls, very softly.

'Ssssh Reggie, hush,' I whisper. The dog's frightened too, he trembles, I can feel it when I put my hand on his back to steady him.

'I've been through the house, MacGyver. I know you're here!' Two more steps, and I hear his feet above me, standing on the hatch that I shut behind me. 'Hey MacGyver? You know what? You can hide, but you can't run!' And then he bursts out into laughter that gives me the creeps.

Okay MacGyver, keep your head cool. Don't let him get to you.

I have one shot at outwitting him, so that better be a good one. Once, I grabbed a man by his ankles, simply by hiding behind the stairs, and sent him flying down. But then I had the advantage of being in good shape. Now, with my leg, I can't even crouch down properly to get under the stairs. Besides, it's too tiny a space to crawl under anyway.

A patch of light appears above me - Murdoc opening the hatch. 'Don't think you can fool me, MacGyver! I'm not coming down there - you are going to come to me!'

Keep quiet, Mac, I tell myself. He's not sure, he can't be. I sit very still, and see his silhouette towering above me. Then it disappears, but he leaves the hatch open. What's he up to?

A large plastic jar of olive oil catches my eye. That's it. I take it to the stairs and unscrew the lid, which all sounds a lot easier than it is, with only one free hand to use. Carefully I poke my head through the hatch opening. From what I can see the kitchen is abandoned. Now. Quickly I take the box of ball bearings from my shirt and roll a handful of them onto the kitchen floor, close to the hatch.

Next I pour the olive oil onto the wooden frame of the hatch, and the four steps down. I use all of it. It's thick and greasy and it'll make a slippery path. The remaining ball bearings go on the wooden planks as well, drifting in the thick oily substance.

Now I must look out that I won't slip away myself and I pull back in the dark. From a shelve I pick up a paper bag filled with flour and I grab my crutch firmly, ready for the fight.

Reggie, next to me, jerks his head. He's followed the whereabouts of the intruder with his perfect hearing - then his nose twitches and he grunts, very softly, but also frightened.

Suddenly the footsteps come this way again and when I recognise the orange glow that precedes him, I know what he's up to. He's carrying a torch!

'It's cold for this time of year, MacGyver! Make sure you keep warm!'

Murdoc takes a step forward to throw the torch down in the cellar.

'MacGyver? Have the decency to say goodbye to me. I'll miss the hunt! Adieu!'

Suddenly, without any prior warning, Reggie jumps up and almost seems to fly through the hatch, aiming for Murdoc, who expected a lot, but not a ferocious dog coming at him from out of the dark. Wildly he jumps aside, trying to get Reggie away from him. He slips on either the greasy surface or the balls and I know that I have to take my chances now: I throw the paper bag with the flour at him and it hits him in the face. It bursts open, leaving him blinded for a few seconds.

Murdoc tries to the hit Reggie, screams at the dog and yells my name and then...

his misses his footing on the little balls and the olive oil, and he falls. With a sickening cracking sound he smacks his way down the small flight of stairs, screaming in agony and fury. Reggie barks loudly. The second stair step breaks loudly and Murdoc tumbles in a confusing heap of splintering, greasy wood. The torch drops from his hand and it rolls away to come to a halt against a box, which catches fire instantly. The flames jump from one item in the cellar onto the other. It goes so fast that's it's almost hard to see, although it's happening in front of my eyes.

'MacGyver!' Murdoc screams. In the poor light I see something flashing: a gun? A knife? It's pointed at me!

With a last, desperate attempt I lash out at him with my crutch, hear the wood hitting Murdoc's wrist and the weapon falling to the ground. I bring down the crutch for a second time and then his screaming suddenly stops.

Aaaah! My leg! I feel it twist as I made a swing at Murdoc and I fall to the ground, helplessly. I can't get up. The pain circles in black and red balls in front of my eyes. Instantly, my stomach turns.

The fire spreads frighteningly rapidly, finding its way to everything around as if it is some killer disease. But I don't see it, I am merely aware of it. My leg! My leg!

From the thunder in my ears I can hear Reggie barking.

Stand up, MacGyver. For God's sake, stand up!

(tbc)


	13. Chapter 13

GOOD TO BE ALIVE - chapter 13

* * *

Jeannie flew overhead and landed on Helen's outstretched arm. Helen had never seen her so restless. 'What is it, girl?' she asked softly and stroked the buzzard's feathers. The bird was nervous, not sitting still for one second, and clicked her beak nervously. Even Helen couldn't calm her down.

But Jeannie wasn't the only one on edge. Jock was too. He kept moving about, uneasily, then suddenly standing still, sniffing, listening, only to assume his nervous walk from the beginning.

Helen felt calmer then when she left the house. She felt embarrassed and sorry for bursting out at MacGyver. She shouldn't have done the way she did, it wasn't his fault. Actually, she liked him a lot. He was a very gentle and kind man, and while other people would normally get on her nerves, she felt at ease with him. He was no burden at all, despite his lack of mobility. Asking about the people in the album was out of interest, not out of some morbid kind of curiosity. Reggie staying behind with MacGyver was like a proof, that her guest meant well. Both dogs trusted him like they trusted her.

Helen stopped and let her gaze wander over the beautiful area. The slopes, the trees, the rocks that reached out for the blue sky... Everything was covered in snow, and amidst that the river was a silver ribbon running away into the distance. This was what Helen lived for. This was what she'd fled to, and what she had embraced.

Go home, Helen, she told herself. She had followed the river for a long time and had calmed down, but by now she'd picked up on the mood of Jock and Jeannie. There was a reason for their behaviour, and as Jeannie jumped up and flew away with loud cries, she decided to turn around and head back for the house.

--

Jock was the first one to notice it. He started barking loudly and took off like the wind. High in the sky Jeannie circled round and round, as if to warn Helen. And then Helen smelled it. Fire.

'MacGyver! Reggie!' she cried out as she ran upwards, only to come to a halt when she saw her house. 'O my god...' she uttered. Jock jumped around like mad.

'MacGyver! Reggie!'

The fire had set the place ablaze. Flames were bursting out of the windows, glass shattered from the heat, throwing thousands of tinkling, tiny shards into the air. O no... Helen felt her knees buckle and sank to the snow. Mac... Reggie...

Jock barked, came running to her, pulled her sleeve. 'Jock...' Helen croaked. The dog pulled again. 'Jocky...' And again.

A howling sound and nervous barking came from the house. Reggie! Jock had heard it before she had, and was trying to get her to the house. If Reggie was still alive, then MacGyver might be too!

Helen jumped up and ran to the house, heat radiating from it. Hurry! She didn't have much time. 'Reggie! MacGyver!' she screamed. Reggie answered to his master's voice, his barks very frightened. It came from the back of the house! The kitchen!

Helen spurted around the back, to the kitchen. Thick smoke came billowing out. 'MacGyver!' Helen shouted. 'MacGyver! Reggie!' She stormed through the door, fighting the urge to run back. No one. Smoke and flames were dancing all around.

'Reggie! MacGyver!'

'Helen! Down here! The cellar!' MacGyver's voice came from deep down, and his words were followed by heavy coughing.

What? Were they trapped in the cellar? The hatch! But... what happened? Fire was licking its way out, and Helen had a terrible vision of man and dog trapped below, the fire spreading fast.

Without thinking one second longer, Helen turned and ran to the side of the house, to skid to a halt next to a bushy shrub, where she sank to her knees. Frantically she shoved the snow aside until she saw a little window, five inches from the ground: a ventilation window for the cellar. It was dirty from the undergrowth, mud and years of neglect, and Helen couldn't see through it, but there was no time to lose. The golden reflection of fire was visible, even through the dirt. She grabbed a stone from the ground and hit the glass as hard as she could. It shattered. She threw herself to the ground and peered in. 'MacGyver! Here!'

'Helen!' MacGyver was on the ground, pressing himself against the far wall. He kept low to avoid breathing in the fumes. He sounded weak and coughed before he could continue. 'I'm trapped!'

'You okay?'

'Yeah, but I'm frying here!'

'Hold on! Where's Reggie?'

'Right here!'

MacGyver needed to get out. Boxes on the far end of the cellar were burning like mad. Helen knew what was inside of those, why it burned the way it did: books.

The wooden ceiling had caught on fire too. The racks with the supplies were made of steel and not as quick to burn, but the ceiling's wooden beams were a dry as cork. Perfect for a fire.

The ceiling of the cellar could collapse any moment. Helen realised that there was no way MacGyver could climb out this window, not with that leg of his. Even if he managed to get himself up, he wouldn't be able to get through: he was simply too big. Helen was much smaller. She could get in and help him out through the hatch. Ten seconds later she was inside, scrambled to her feet and ran over to MacGyver.

'MacGyver! Get up! Come on!'

Reggie jumped up, deadly frightened, staying as close to Helen as possible.

The air in the cellar was thick and it was hard to breathe. 'Hold on to me,' Helen ordered and MacGyver put his arm around her shoulder and she grabbed him by his waist. 'We have to go through the hatch,' Helen told him. 'The window is too small for you.'

'No,' MacGyver shook his head. 'The staircase's collapsed.'

'Not to mention it's on fire,' muttered Helen, in awe of the flames devouring the hatch and what was left of the staircase. 'What alternative do we have?'

MacGyver blinked his eyes, trying to focus. 'We have to make a bigger hole of the window,' he croaked.

'It's a solid stone wall,' Helen said, keeping MacGyver to his feet and supporting him to the window.

'The frame is wood,' MacGyver pointed out. He felt the pine, firm under his touch. As smoke reached him, he coughed vehemently, and so did Helen. The cellar was filling up with smoke, making it more difficult to breathe by the minute. The two took a couple of deep breaths near the window, where fresh air came in.

A slit was visible between the frame and the wall. Cold from outside brushed MacGyver's fingers as he ran them over the tiny opening. If there was anything he could use as a lever...

'Have you got a screwdriver in here?' MacGyver asked.

'No, they're in the toolcase, and that's in the living room!' Helen cried out.

'I need something sharp ... ' He racked his brains. 'Wait a second, I've seen...,' MacGyver squeezed his eyes shut. What was it again? 'I know! Cutlery - forks, knifes, spoons...'

'My grandma's set of table silver!'

'Yeah! Get me that?'

'Yes. Stay here,' Helen said grimly and ran to one of the racks. Mac, feeling dizzy, and because of his length forced to stay low, turned to watch her and wiped his eyes to get the tears away.

The ceiling cracked dangerously.

'Helen! Watch out!' MacGyver shouted. 'Above you!'

In a split second, Helen dove aside and two burning wooden beams thundered down, missing her by an inch. 'Helen!'

'I'm okay!' She shouted and on hands and feet, she headed on, closer to the inferno.

MacGyver wanted to shout for her to come back. Every second counted and it was too dangerous. But Helen knew her way around here and if there was one way of getting out, it was by letting her do what was necessary.

'Helen! Helen, are you okay? Talk to me!' he called out over the blazing fire. Seconds seem to stretch, longer and longer. 'Helen!'

Suddenly he spotted her, crawling her way to him, her breathing laboured, and just like his, her eyes were streaming. 'Here...' she panted, coughed and pushed a handful of cutlery into his hand. 'That's all I could get my hands on.'

'You did great,' MacGyver said and pushed the teeth of a fork into the slit, wiggling to make more room. He jammed the second one a few inches further and did the same with a third and fourth fork.

Using his crutch to put pressure on all four forks at the same time, he pushed down hard and indeed - the wood broke free from the wall.

'It's working!' Helen cried out.

MacGyver yanked the forks into the opposite side of the frame, and repeated the process. The upper and lower bar came down at lot more easily once the two vertical ones were gone.

'You first,' Helen urged. 'I'm not strong enough to pull you out, but I can give you a leg up. Go.'

Being chivalrous wasn't going to be of use to anyone - MacGyver knew she was right. Helen helped and pushed him up and he wiggled his way out. He shrieked in pain as he saw stars shooting when his leg scraped against the rough side of the opening, but he made it to safety. Then he turned and stretched out his hand.

'Helen!'

'Reggie!' she screamed as a howl and a cry of pain from the dog reached their ears. The dog! Where was it?

'Helen, come back! Get out!' MacGyver shouted but she turned and ran back again. 'Helen!'

MacGyver couldn't do anything but watch through the demolished window, and held his breath. Smoke found its way to this side of the cellar too. MacGyver's heart was pounding wildly. Where was she? Could she make it on time? He knew everything had happened in mere minutes, but it felt like he'd been stuck in there for hours on end. What if the entire ceiling would come down, or what if the heat was too much for Helen to get through, or what if Reggie was trapped or...

Just as he was about to feat the worst, he heard panting. Helen's face appeared. She held Reggie in her arms. She couldn't talk, deprived of her voice by smoke inhalation, but MacGyver didn't need words, reached out and pulled out the dog first, and Helen after that. In what seemed only ten seconds later, the ceiling of the cellar collapsed, kitchen furniture tumbling down into the fiery pit below.

Helen, MacGyver and Reggie staggered away as far as they could, until they reached a pile of rocks and exhausted, they sank to the ground, their backs cooled down by the snow covered stones.

They made it.

They lived.

(tbc)


	14. Chapter 14

GOOD TO BE ALIVE - chapter 14

* * *

_**Mac**_

'How are the dizzy spells?' Doctor Jacobi asks and carefully moves my head from left to right.

'Fine, a lot better.'

'You've had a good doctor, MacGyver. The leg fracture is healing nicely. That splint was a nice piece of work.'

'Thanks doc,' I nod in agreement, as doctor Jacobi pulls the X-rays from the light box. 'And you're right about my doctor: she did an excellent job.'

'The smoke inhalation might cause you some trouble for a few days still. Take it easy. You can use this inhaler if it gets too bad. For today, use the oxygen mask whenever you can.' The doctor leaves my room and I grin at the man next to my bed.

Pete looks happy, although he can't hide his obvious worry. 'It's unbelievable, MacGyver,' he says. 'How he did it.'

'Pete, tell me... his body...'

Pete's silence speaks volumes. Nope. How it is possible that Murdoc manages to get away alive again and again, is a mystery to me, and I can't suppress the worry myself.

'Look MacGyver, I'm not going to lie about it. I'm sorry. There was no body.'

'The man has more lives than a cat.' I sigh deeply, then change the subject 'I'm a glad you found us so quickly.'

'We discovered a device, just as Helen said you suspected. I knew you were going somewhere near Harry's old place so I had Nikki scan newspapers from that region. She found an article about a collapsed bridge near Bunker's Hill. From there on it got easier.'

I think back to the moment the entire house went up in flames. Helen sat next to me, with her hands buried in the snow, half unconscious, shaking and unable to open her eyes. We both coughed and coughed until I had the feeling my lungs would burst.

Reggie was in pain - Helen told me he had been hit by a beam that came falling down. Stroking him thankfully, I knew I owed the dog my life. If he hadn't jumped Murdoc, I doubt if it would have worked the way it did, since Murdoc didn't plan on coming down. He wanted to smoke me out. Which he nearly did, in the end.

My head was spinning and my leg was hurting like hell. We were both black with smoke and soot, and Helen moaned softly. She had burns all over, especially on her hands. From experience I knew how painful that is and I tried to say something to reassure her, but all that came out was a croak and endless bout of coughing.

Somewhere along the line I heard a chopper overhead and in pure relief, I closed my eyes and rested my head against the cool stones. I must have passed out. The helicopter, alarmed by the fire, evacuated the both of us to the nearest hospital.

'MacGyver? Are you okay?'

'Yeah. Could you do me a favour Pete?'

'Sure, anything. What is it?'

--

Helen is asleep as I enter her room. Especially the last return to fetch Reggie was a bad run. She's pretty ill - infections in her lungs from fumes, smoke and inhaled ash particles has her bedded since we've been saved. Fluids are building up in her lungs and she's on tube and wires to get it out of her system.

Underneath the scratches, the blisters and the bright red burn marks, she looks so pale and fragile. Her wheezing breath remind me of the squeaking of an old door.

I sit there for a long time, quietly while she sleeps, and reflect on what happened. I'm extremely lucky to have come out of this alive. If it wasn't for Helen, I wouldn't be here. Reggie didn't make it. The veterinarian had to put him to sleep. He was too badly injured. It broke Helen's heart, and mine too. Jock's in the care of Nikki, who's good with dogs.

I must have dozed off, because I need a few second to focus when I hear her voice, thin and hoarsely: 'Hi.' With her bandaged hands - burnt when she went back to get the cutlery - she waves at me.

'Hey Helen.' I reach forward and kiss her gently on her lips. 'How are you feeling?'

'Like I've a done French kiss with an ash trey,' she croaks.

Smiling, I gently stroke her hair and her cheek. It's too warm, she's running a fever. 'You were fantastic. The doctor told me I had the best field medic anyone could wish for.'

She smiles too.

'You never told me how you turned from doctor into artist,' I say softly.

For a moment I think she will close that book on my once again, but after a pause she says: 'I'm not a doctor.'

'Sure know your way around injuries.'

Her eyes get a distance glare, seeing things I can't see. When she starts talking, it's as if she's talking about someone else.

--

'I've always been different, ever since I was a kid. Girls my age watched Sesame Street and played with Barbie dolls, and I read Mark Twain and Charles Dickens. I knew what I wanted to do when I left school: join the Peace Corps. I read about it when I was eleven and knew instantly that was the thing for me. At sixteen, I graduated.'

'Sixteen?'

'Yes. I skipped two classes.'

'Then you must have done good in school.'

'I was. But being bright isn't all it's cracked up to be when you're young.' Helen smiles ruefully, lost in thought for a moment, breaks out in coughs and when that subsides, she continues. 'Anyway, in the Peace Corps I found my place. After a short training I went to work and I turned out to have a knack for medical stuff. Probably because I read so much, I could diagnose an injury or an illness fairly accurately, and I came to work in a medical staff. That was when I met doctor Philippe Bernard. He was experienced, compassionate and the kindest man I've ever met. We fell in love.'

'Was he the man in the photos? The guy with the dark curls?' I ask.

Helen nods, a soft smile spreading on her face. 'We worked together ever since then, made a perfect team and travelled all over the world. Everywhere we could assist, we went and tried to make a difference. It works, MacGyver. It's a good system. But it all... it's... there was... everything changed in Venezuela.'

Helen has to stop, coughs until she seems to choke, and closes her eyes for a minute, while she gets her breath at ease again.

'If this is too much for you...'

'No, no,' Helen shakes her head. 'It's okay. Damn infection. Anyway, where was I?'

Venezuela, I remind her.

'Right. Philippe and I were called to an assignment in Venezuela. A very regular stream of casualties needed attention. Philippe was suspicious. The casualties seemed to have increased since a start was made with the construction of a water purifying installation, near the outskirts of a large dam.

Together with the chief engineer, he discovered that a local militia leader by the name of Dante Barbera, was behind all those "accidents". The purifying plant was to be build on Dante's drug route.'

'Ah...' I nod. 'I bet he didn't like that.'

Helen licks her lips, and I hand her a cup of water. She takes a sip and continues. 'One day Philippe and I came back from a short leave. We had to pick up a new delivery of medical supplies at the airport and we had taken a couple of days off. Something was wrong. There was water everywhere. We couldn't reach the village, it was one big, wild current of foaming water and sucking mud and... bodies. Philippe stopped the car, jumped out and lifted something out of the water. A baby. A little boy, he helped deliver just a week earlier. A few feet from me, face down in the water was a girl, only a few years older.'

Helen pauses, but this time it's not for a drink or a cough. I see the pain shining in her eyes. 'They were everywhere, Mac. Babies, children, men, women - all dead. Drowned. Dante had blown the dam and the wall of water had obliterated the entire village. Philippe and I were the only ones who survived, and that was only because we'd chosen exactly that weekend to take some R&R.

We contacted the authorities and helped salvage the bodies. Threehundred forty-two casualties, Mac. Useless. Senseless. Plain, brutal murder. I sat there, holding a ten-year old boy whose knee I had patched up after a nasty fall. The stitches were still there.'

Wearily, she closes her eyes and sinks back into the pillows. The machines hiss and bleep continuously, for a while being the only sound in the room.

Just when I think I should leave because sleep has taken over, she turns her head and smiles sadly. 'I didn't sleep for weeks after that. Perhaps that's why I failed to see that Philippe couldn't cope at all. He... he committed suicide.'

A single tear wells up in her eyes.

'If I had been less engaged with myself, I might have been able to talk him out of it. I loved him, MacGyver. I should have seen it coming. I... He... It was...' Words fail her and she falls silent again.

I stand up to sit on the edge of her bed, and cup her heated face with my hands. 'Helen, you can't blame yourself for what he did. I can't even begin to understand what you must have witnessed, but I know for a fact that you must have been in just as much distress as Philippe was.' I look into her eyes. Brown, with dark edges and little specks of green.

Helen sighs with difficulty. 'I couldn't face the world anymore. I left the Peace Corps and found myself a place in the mountains, far away from everyone. I dedicated my life to nature. Turned out I made pretty drawings and I sold them to earn a living. And that's that.'

So that's why she was so closed and to her self at first. A lot of pain, guilt that shouldn't be there, mixed with intense, sad loneliness.

'Helen, you must stop feeling guilty over something you would never have been able to prevent. You've done so much, you've helped so many people. Philippe was beyond salvation.'

'I can't face the world anymore, MacGyver,' she says, tiredly.

'Yes, you can.'

'No, I can't.'

'Yes. You saved my life, you helped me. You're warm, intelligent, compassionate. You shouldn't be lonely. If you give yourself a chance, you can. You're a strong woman.'

'I'm not sure I can.'

'I am. And I'll be there every step of the way. I promise.' And then I bend over and kiss her, ever so tenderly and softly, on her lips. 'Are you with me?'

She doesn't answer, keeps her eyes closed. 'Helen? Will you come and work for the Phoenix Foundation? I'm sure you'll like it.'

Still she doesn't answer.

'Helen? Sweetie?'

She's out of it. Lips slightly parted, a remainder of our kiss, eyes closed, exhaustion has finally won. And yet - I see what I haven't seen before: she looks serene. It seems Helen has finally come to peace with her past.

(tbc)


	15. Chapter 15

GOOD TO BE ALIVE - epilogue

* * *

_A cold, brilliant day in November._

'Okay, you can open your eyes now,' MacGyver said, and Helen, holding his hand did as instructed. Pete stood on the other side and smiled broadly. Their breaths formed white little clouds in the frosty air.

Helen's eyes grew big and a big smile spread over her face. 'Oh, Mac... this is beautiful.'

MacGyver rattled a set of keys in front of her. 'And it's yours, if you want it. Courtesy of the Phoenix Foundation.'

'MacGyver wouldn't be alive without you,' Pete agreed. 'It's the least we could do.'

'It's good to be alive,' MacGyver said cheerfully. 'And I've got you to thank for it.'

He gestured her to board the boat. 'Thank you,' Helen softly said and stepped on the deck of a 28 ft, well-equipped, seaworthy boat. Jock followed her and tiptoed around, sniffling at the rigging, his nails ticking on the deck. 'How did you know I was into oceanography?'

'Well...' MacGyver guided her to the cabin and opened the door for her. His cast was off at last, and though still stiff and limping a little, he managed well without crutches. 'You had a lot of books about the sea, fish and ocean wildlife. Seems like a nice idea to practice your exploratory and scientific skills at sea.'

He had chosen this carefully. Helen was a free spirit, despite her self-chosen confinement of the last eight years. So he found her a research job within the Foundation, studying tides, current, shoals of fish, salmon treks and so on - as part of a team of nice, equally bright scientists. A boat would give her the freedom and the privacy she still longed for, and the mobility to go where ever she wanted.

'This is too much...' Helen muttered, cheeks flushing.

MacGyver put his hands on her shoulders and pulled her close. 'Helen, you've lost so much, and you never complained about it. I can never replace all the books you cherished so much, or the life of Reggie, or your house in the mountains. Please accept it.'

'But Mac, I...'

He kissed her, effectively cutting off her arguments. 'Now, do I hear any more objections? Thanks, Helen. For all you've done for me.'

Shyly, the petite woman kissed him back and touched his face, where a light scar was still visible. It seemed like yesterday since MacGyver was bleeding from a head wound, yet on the other hand it could have happened years ago, in another lifetime. 'You're welcome, MacGyver.'

Pete called from the quay. 'Helen! Come and meet your partner.'

'My what? I...' Helen furred her eyebrows. 'I don't think I am up to...'

'Go and see the man,' MacGyver advised and pushed her out the door.

A tiny black and white, fuzzy ball on four paws stood next to Pete, and wiggled a soft, fluffy tail. 'Oh Mac! Will you look at that?' Helen sank to her knees, called the little dog to her and picked it up, Pete forgotten on the quay.

'Seems to me you could use a new shipmate,' MacGyver laughed and tickled the puppy behind its ears. 'It's an Australian shepherd.'

'He's lovely,' Helen said with a heartwarming smile. 'Jock! Come here boy. Come and meet your new buddy!' She put the puppy down, Jock jumped from the boat onto the quay and checked the newcomer. Curiously the two dogs seized each other up. It was great to witness the moment that the little dog sought shelter between Jock's big paws.

Helen turned to MacGyver and threw her arms around his neck and kissed him warmly. 'Thank you, Mac.'

'You're welcome.' MacGyver smiled, touched her hair with his fingers and was thrilled to see Helen radiating. She was on the way back, as sure as his leg was mending. It needed time, but the future was a whole lot brighter now. 'It needs a name.'

Helen looked in delight at Jock and the fluffy, playful puppy. Next MacGyver saw her face going up, looking at the blue, cold November sky. 'It's odd, isn't it? I know that Jeannie is in the mountains, and that she can take care of herself, that she doesn't need me at all. I don't think I'll see her again.' A line of thoughtfulness appeared around her eyes, but the next moment she looked back at MacGyver, smiled and said: 'I've got a name.'

'You do?'

'Yep. I'll call the boat The Reggie.'

'That's nice. Good idea. I thought you meant you had a name for the puppy.'

Helen nodded and cuddled the puppy, with a spark of humour in her eyes. 'Oh, but I do. I always thought Angus was a fine name...'

**THE END**

**_Note: This is were it ends. It was fun to do, and I'd like to say thanks to everyone who's read and reviewed it. Sorry if sometimes you might find some typos or strange sentence constructions. I'm not a native English speaker - hence the mistakes. But hey! MacGyver is a universal hero, as far as I'm concerned, and I'm sure he'd appreciate it all the same! Cheers!_**


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